Better in the Worst Way
by noneedtorush
Summary: Violet thought that in death, all life's questions would be answered. She found that it only left more questions than answers. First fic I've written in years. May continue if readers enjoy it. Feedback is appreciated!


She stared at the razor placed gingerly between her fingers, tilting it to

shine its light all over the walls of her room. The sun was pouring onto her

floor, creating a pool of warmth, yet she still felt so cold. The razor was ice cold

between her fingertips. Cutting was still a form of escape for her. She was always

so fascinated by the steady trickle of blood that leaked from her once-pumping

veins. It took her mind off of her death. How ironic. She thought that in death, she would

discover the meaning of life. She later found that it left her with more questions than

it did answers. It baffled her that a corpse, could still pump blood through her veins, take

oxygen into her lungs and pulsate warmth between her thighs that coiled up into

her stomach. She never lost her most basic, natural and most importantly

_human_ qualities.

Being dead also gave her plenty of time to think, which was the last thing

she wanted to do. Especially in this house. She found that as time dragged on,

her thoughts became more and more distorted and out of her control. She assumed

that's what happened when you fell in love with a ghost with bloodlust, who just

by chance raped your mother. She really began to lose it when she stood in front

of her decaying body. There was just no way that she was standing in the

crawlspace, staring down at her once living capsule of a body. Who wouldn't lose

it?

Feelings would come and go, like smoke being exhaled from lungs, from lips,

disappearing into thin air. More often than not she felt weak. Weak for still

getting butterflies when she thought of him. Weak for sliding down the back of

her door and letting out strangled sobs, waiting for his arms to sweep her up

and kiss away her pain. She knew she could have it. She knew that in a moment,

he would be there, ready to rescue her, just like he attempted when she

swallowed all those pills. To put it simply, she felt weak for loving a boy who

shot up her highschool in 1994, killed the couple who lived in this very house

just a year ago, and raped her mother in the same rubbersuit he passionately

kissed her in beneath the shadows of the basement. She felt sick thinking about

it. She was just as insane as he was, just for loving him despite all that he's

done.

She wouldn't hide from him. She was far too proud for that bullshit. She'd walk

freely through the house, false confidence and adrenaline coursing through her bloodstream,

similar to the way she once walked the courtyard at Westfield, smoke billowing around her face.

Nobody really paid much attention to her, everyone in the house was too wrapped up in

their own thoughts. That's the thing about this house. You're trapped with numerous souls,

yet you still feel so incredibly alone. She didn't know who she was torturing

more. Herself or the boy who lurked in the shadows, watching her every move. She

could feel him, but not as strongly as she used to. When she first banished him,

she could feel him so strongly that it made her want to pull her hair out. She

knew he was watching her. In those first few months, she refused to cry. She

wanted him to believe that she was just fine without him. In reality, she wanted

to scream out his name. Only in sleep would she escape the feeling of him,

hovering behind her like a disembodied shadow. She knew she didn't need to

sleep, but besides dragging the blade across her wrist, sleep was her only

escape. She was glad she didn't dream. She knew all her dreams would be of Tate.

Both beautiful, fulfilling dreams and teeth grinding nightmares. She knew she'd

wake up in a sweat, and immidiately tears would spring to life in her glassy

eyes. She'd bite her wrist to muffle the sobs shaking her lungs. Instead, she'd

wake up feeling empty, slowly sitting up and looking around the room. A part of

her always expected to see him sitting in the corner, those dark eyes piercing

through her sternum. She never saw them. She told herself she never wanted to

see them again. She would keep telling herself she didn't want to see them.

The razor fell out of her hand and onto the floor in front of her. She had

been so lost in thought that the sun was now setting, the warmth of the sun on

her floor had completely disappeared, leaving her sitting the middle of her

bedroom floor engulfed by darkness. The air in the room suddenly shifted.

"You promised you'd never cut yourself again", came the all too familiar voice from

behind her. She was almost too afraid to turn around. She knew if she turned

around, she'd fall into his arms, whispering promises of never leaving his side

again. She squeezed her eyes shut, picking up her razor. Her hands were shaking so

violently that it startled her. She was usually "little ms. nerves of steel." But not lately.

She braced herself, tears already forming in her eyes.

"Go away", she muttered in a broken voice, pressing down and slicing as she did so.


End file.
